


Self-portrait in Crimson

by esmeraude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, F/M, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6988138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esmeraude/pseuds/esmeraude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Crimson blood has spilled from his lips, dripping onto his shirt. In that moment, the door of the nightclub opens and his razor-sharp fangs glisten in the brief moment of light. His tongue caresses his lips in hunger. I should run, but I can't. After so long, I'm finally seeing him for what he truly is: a murderer, yes, but one who's grotesquely, insensibly beautiful.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hugo Weasley is a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-portrait in Crimson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgentHenry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentHenry/gifts).



 

_SELF-PORTRAIT IN CRIMSON_

CHAPTER ONE: THE COLOUR OF BLOOD

* * *

**ALEXIS**

There are few things that can wake me up at three o’clock in the afternoon. After working a night shift, and taking care of my two-year-old son all morning, his afternoon nap is my first opportunity to snatch some sleep. I've slept through the radio at top volume, a domestic going on in the flat upstairs, and owls at the window – but it is the sound of something breaking that has me jumping off the sofa and running towards the kitchen as fast as I can.

When I stop in the doorway, I can't help being left speechless at the sight of such chaos. Flour covers every surface imaginable, the contents of my fridge have been scattered all over the floor, and a dozen Galleons worth of Floo powder has been knocked everywhere, intermingling with the flour, while the container that the powder’s kept in – a china pot inherited from my great-grandmother – is broken into pieces.

In the middle of all this mess, Sammy stands with a mixing bowl and wooden spoon in his arms.

“Sorry, Mummy,” he says, pulling such an innocent face that it almost feels cruel to scold him.

_Almost_.

“Samuel,” I say firmly, kneeling down so that I’m eye-level with him. “You know you aren't allowed into the kitchen on your own. How did you even reach the door handle?”

“I flew up,” he says. “I wanted to make Mummy a cake.”

“We can make a cake together when it's not nap time,” I reply, wiping some flour from his cheeks. “Now, what do you mean? How did you fly up?”

Sammy looks pleased with himself as he gives me the mixing bowl and toddles off to the corner of the kitchen, returning with a small toy broomstick. I recognise it as one that Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sell, but I haven't stepped foot in the store for almost a year, and I'm confused at how it got into my son’s possession until I notice something shiny lodged in the stick part. Quickly, before Sammy can pull away the broomstick, I reach out and grab the piece of foil.

It's Christmas wrapping paper. Damn. November isn't yet over, but with a family as large as the Weasleys, it takes months to go through the whole rigmarole: thinking of a gift the recipient would like, finding it in the shops at an affordable price, wrapping it up and stashing it away safely until Christmas Day. Hugo’s been staggering his gifts for our son, purchasing one item at a time so he doesn't break the bank (which is easy to do when you're unemployed) and up until now, Sammy’s presents had been stowed safely at the back of my wardrobe.

“Come on, son,” I smile, picking him up. “We’ll Floo your Auntie Francesca to clean up this mess for us, and then while she’s here, I’ll go out and buy some ingredients for a cake and we can make one tomorrow morning.”

Sammy cheers, clapping his hands, just as I instinctively reach for the Floo powderpot that's no longer on the mantelpiece. Uncertainly, I look at the mixture of Floo powder and flour on the floor and tentatively, crouch down to pick up a handful and throw it into the fireplace. Almost immediately, green flames burst into existence as they should, but so does black smoke that fills the kitchen.

I quickly bolt out of the kitchen and close the door behind me. Lesson learnt: contaminated Floo powder doesn't work. I’m fairly confident it won't do much harm to the kitchen or to us, but I'm stuck now. I can't Floo my sister or anybody else, and if I go out to buy more powder (and a new powderpot) I’ll have to take Sammy with me, which always results in acquaintances or even complete strangers recognising his brunet hair and brown eyes as those of his father’s, and proceeding to quiz me on the personal details of our lives.

I love my son more than anything else, but sometimes, the fact he's half a Weasley and the grandson of the most influential woman in history is something I can't help feeling annoyed at. My parents are well-known and popular, and I'm used to being stopped in the street with genuine enquiries as to their health, activities, lives, by people who actually know them. Back when Hugo and I were dating, we used to get mobbed by strangers obsessing over every aspect of our lives – so much so that when I was pregnant with Sammy, the _Daily Prophet_ published several articles about how I was a bad mother by working while pregnant (even though I was tied to a desk instead of being out in the field) and choosing to return to work when my maternity leave ended.

Then again, I chose to have a kid with Hugo: I should have known what I was letting myself in for.

There's a loud knocking at the door, so with Sammy still in my arms, I go to answer it while trying to work who it could be. All my family, and Hugo’s, know never to bang on the door loudly at this time of the day, and although it could be one of my neighbours letting me know they’ve taken a parcel in for me while I was sleeping or out, I'm not expecting any to arrive.

If it's a door-to-door salesperson, they're getting hexed into the middle of next week.

“Alexis! _Alexis_!” Hugo’s voice is getting louder with every repetition of my name, so I speed up the last few feet of my hallway to open the door. He doesn't seem to notice Sammy in my arms, or his flour-covered state; his eyes are sparkling with excitement and his body keeps shifting and fidgeting before he puts his hands on my arms, looks me in the eye and announces with the utmost certainty, “Alexis, I found Lucy.”

I shake my head, saying, “That's impossible. Lucy’s been missing for over a year.”

“I saw her,” Hugo insists. “My grandparents – my Muggle grandparents – said there was a vacancy going at their dental practice in Maida Vale for a receptionist, so I went there for an interview with the dentists working there now, and when I was coming out of the surgery I saw Lucy. She was with this guy; tall, black, shaven head. I followed them back to her flat – I know it's definitely hers, because the guy dropped her off there and left. The doorbells are the types with names next to the flat number, and one of them said Weasley. It _has_ to be her, Ally.”

My answer is tentative. “Are you sure it wasn't just someone who looked like her? And the name – maybe Weasley’s a common name in the Muggle world?”

“Oh, come on!” he scoffs. “Anyone would think you don't want Lucy found!”

“Hugo, of course I want Lucy found,” I lie. “But if it's a mistake… If it's someone else you saw, a different Weasley living in that flat, how disappointed do you think her parents are going to be? It’s been months since the last reported sighting of her; if this turns out to be a false alarm, their hearts will be broken all over again.”

“That's why I came to you,” says Hugo. “I wrote down her address. You work in the Ministry, you can look into it, find out who lives there, maybe get some surveillance on the place.”

“I’m a _vampire slayer_ , not an Auror. I don't deal with human beings.”

For a moment, I can't help fearing that Hugo has worked out what I know, that this is all some convoluted plot to make me confess, until he pushes the handwritten note into my hand.

“I know that, Ally,” he says, “but surely you've got friends in other departments, relevant departments, who can trace her down? It's a Muggle address, so maybe the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office or –”

“—OK,” I answer. “Why don't you take Sammy and give him a bath, and after that clean up the kitchen? He found the broom you got him – thanks for warning me about that, by the way – and used it to reach the door handle so he could get in the kitchen and ended up making a mess. Make sure you don't Vanish the powderpot, because I'm going to get Francesca to repair it. I need to go to the shops to replace the Floo powder and pick up some milk, so on my way home, I'll pop into work and see what I can do.”

Hugo seems bewildered by the influx of information I've just given him, but willingly takes Sammy and nods in reply. I'm relieved at this: he's as bad at housework as I am, so while bathing Sammy won't take long, cleaning the kitchen will keep him occupied for hours. Hopefully, it should give me enough time to figure out some kind of damage control.

Once I've grabbed my handbag, put on my cloak, kissed Sammy goodbye and left the flat, it doesn't take me long to get to the Ministry. It would probably be cheaper to live outside of London and commute into the city like Hugo does, but the cost of daily Floos to and from work would outweigh the cost of my extra rent. And I'm within walking distance of my parents and Francesca, which is always a bonus.

In the Atrium, I'm aware of people whispering behind my back, and although I can't tell what they're saying, bitter experience suggests that tomorrow’s _Prophet_ headline will scream, “HUGO WEASLEY’S WORKAHOLIC EX ABANDONS SON FOR OVERTIME”. A part of me wants to confront those gossipers, but right now, I have something more important to attend to.

“Afternoon, Miss Longbottom,” smiles Bernie, the lift attendant, and I flash him a smile in reply as I walk into the lift.

Normally, I'd stop to chat for a few minutes, but today I just need to get to my office and the quicker I do, the better. Bernie’s a pretty understanding guy, so he just greets the next person without pushing further, and for that I’m grateful. When the lift doors open at level four, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, I get out and walk past several werewolves queuing for their monthly supply of Wolfsbane Potion to my destination, the Vampire Liaison Office. Personally, I’d rename the office, since these days we tend to hunt vampires rather than _liaise_ , but apparently the current name sounds more welcoming to the rogue vampires that we need to attract.

Long story short, those vampires who register their existence with us are given regular blood supplies but must live to stringent rules and have a Trace placed on them so that we know where they are, particularly if they're suspects in a vampire attack on a human. Unfortunately, the majority of vampires don't want to abide by rules designed to protect the innocent public, even shunning those who they believe have registered with us, and those covens are who we slay. Our mission is to keep a watch on those covens and slay as many wild vampires as possible while ensuring they aren't plotting some form of world domination – particularly the elders, who have devolved into seeing humans as nothing but blood bags.

When I push open the door to the office, I'm surprised to see the blonde head of my boss bent over her desk. I’m not due in until eleven o’clock tonight and she only comes in a hour before me, and it's now just gone four o’clock. She should be at home right now, but whatever the reason for her presence, at least I can deal with this situation now instead of leaving her a note.

“Miss Longbottom,” says Valérie, glancing at the clock in surprise before looking at me. “Why are you in so early?”

“I could say the same about you, Miss Mimieux,” I answer, walking over to her desk and, after she silently indicates the chair, I sit down opposite her.

“I’m catching up on parchmentwork,” Valérie answers, gesturing first at the mountain of forms on her desk and then a steaming mug of brown liquid, “with the help of the delightful invention that is coffee. Why are you here, Alexis?”

The fact she's used my first name stuns me momentarily, since she's always so adamant that we should remain professional, but I’m quick to recover, retrieving the address Hugo wrote and placing it on the desk before I answer the question.

“Hugo saw Lucy Weasley in Maida Vale today, with a man who, from his description, sounds like Jeremiah. He followed them to Lucy’s flat, saw the name Weasley next to the doorbell, noted the address and came to me to ask if I could trace whoever lives at that address, to make sure he wasn't mistaken,” I explain. “When I tried to suggest he might be, he was adamant that he wasn't.”

Valérie frowns. “What was he doing in Muggle London, in the first place? Doesn't he live in Devon with his parents?”

“His grandparents own a dental practice. He was there for a job interview as a receptionist. I’m assuming he’ll get the job and the interview’s just a formality, in which case we’re in trouble. If Hugo goes back to that flat…”

“Tell Mr Weasley that you have asked a colleague to look into the matter,” she instructs. “I'll start to compile an alias for a Muggle who looks similar to Miss Weasley and shares her surname, and when I'm done he’ll be thoroughly convinced of his mistake. What colour were her eyes before she was turned?”

“Blue.” I don't need to think about the answer, and the speed of my response has clearly surprised Valérie, so I seize the opportunity to continue speaking, “Every week, there's a new poster or another article about her disappearance. The _Sunday Prophet_ No!” Valérie snaps, her green eyes glaring at me with fury. “For thirty years, since Claudine arrived in London, no newborn vampires have been permitted to join the coven. They have all been destroyed, regardless of whether they registered with us or stayed wild, until Lucy Weasley was turned. She is the first newborn vampire to have been allowed to live, and we need to find out why Claudine has not destroyed her like the rest. If we involve her, and one of the other vampires compels or glamours her into telling them about our investigation, we will lose everything. Lucy Weasley’s status as a vampire stays secret. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Mimieux,” I answer.

I'm not particularly pleased about it, but I can understand Valérie’s point. Compulsion works similarly to the Imperius Curse, and glamour is a toxic form of attraction similar to a Veela’s charms: Lucy wouldn't be able to resist either. Involving her risks compromising all the surveillance and investigation we’ve done into the London coven, and telling her family the truth would be disastrous. Apart from the risk that the press might find out (Percy Weasley would go down in history for being the first Minister for Magic to have a vampire daughter, much like Gerald Fleamont and his son did in the 1500s) there's also the possibility that the family might want to stay in touch with Lucy, and that would be a guaranteed method of getting her excluded from the coven.

“Go home,” says Valérie, and suddenly I notice just how tired she looks. “Take the night off. Spend time with your boyfriend, try to convince him he was seeing things. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I have to force myself to not point out that Hugo is no longer my boyfriend, because not only do I not want to risk annoying my boss, but she's just given me the night off and I'm not foolish enough to jeopardise that.

“See you tomorrow,” I answer instead, and walk out of the office.

Now for Diagon Alley: I need Floo powder, and Hugo will think it's odd if I went out for milk and didn't get any, so that's on my shopping list, as well as chocolate biscuits and those sweets that Sammy loves.

“Floo powder… Milk… Chocolate biscuits… Sammy’s sweets… Eggs…” I recite under my breath as I head towards the lift.

* * *

**_Paris, France. 1762._ **

On the corner of the street, the slayer waits. His cloak is made with the darkest black material his seamstress could locate, allowing him the ability to disappear into the shadows. He does not wear the wizard hat that his society expects young men of his age to; instead, his cloak has a hood that he can pull up to conceal his identity. Unlike the other slayers lurking in the darkest streets of Paris at night, this is not his employment. The vampires he destroys are left in the street for someone else to benefit from, while those who slay for money take the corpses to the Ministry to exchange for gold.

For the others, slaying vampires is a necessary task that must be done to earn money. For him, it is a pleasurable sport. He prides himself on his ability to follow a vampire for hours without tiring, waiting for the perfect moment to strike: when it feeds, usually, but there are times when one is in search of a place to rest for the night. Those are the vampires he likes most – it is rare to catch an old vampire with its guard down, but he has enjoyed that victory numerous times.

Tonight, it seems he will go without his nightly pursuits. There have been reports of vampires in this neighbourhood, and yet there has been no activity all night. In the distance, he can see dawn beginning to break. It is time to go home.

Suddenly, movement catches his eye and he turns to see a bedraggled woman with crimson red eyes: a newborn, one of the most dangerous kinds of vampire. The elders have honed their self-restraint over the years, but newborns are overwhelmed by their new senses and by the thirst of blood, and this lends to them a recklessness for their own self-preservation. His curiosity is piqued further by a boy carefully following from a distance: judging by the boy’s height and build, he ought to be a student, so his absence from school is intriguing to the slayer.

He follows.

The vampire runs ahead, the boy trails it, and he follows carefully. For several minutes, the three stumble through the cobbled streets of Paris until the vampire stops. It can smell a victim, but it is not sure where the victim is, and has paused suddenly in the streets.

He casually lifts his wand to cast a hex that will knock the vampire off its feet, but the boy employs a different method: rope shoots out of the boy’s wand towards the vampire just as he casts his spell. The resulting chaos results in the rope closing on nothing, while his hex has forewarned the vampire of the impending danger, and with the powerful speed commanded only by creatures of the night, it has gone.

Furious, the boy turns around and aims his wand at the slayer, and it is then that he realises during the commotion, the boy’s hat fell off, revealing the disguise. His rival is not a boy, but a teenage girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen, barely five years younger than he is. The girl is angry, cursing at him viciously, and he realises that his interference has not just permitted a vampire to escape, but cheated the girl of her kill.

“ _Je suis desolée_ ,” he says. “ _Je suis tres desolée_.”

His apologies seem to placate the girl, because she calms down just enough for him to take a step closer to her and extend his hand.

“ _Je m’appelle Maurice Saunière_. _Et vous_?”

Clearly, the girl is a pure-blood or a half-blood, because her eyes widen as she recognises his name. The Saunières are a powerful family in magical France and the founders of Beauxbatons Academy, the country’s most prestigious school for young gentlemen. He can't help frowning when she does not apologise for her insults, like he had expected her to. It is a new experience for him, and he isn't quite sure if he respects or despises the girl.

“ _Quel est votre nom_?” he persists.

She takes a deep breath, her dark blonde hair and piercing green eyes becoming visible with the brightening sky, before answering his question.

“ _Mon nom est Valérie Mimieux_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to the wonderfully patient Ciarán, for putting up with my procrastinating. <3
> 
> **Translations:**
> 
> _Je suis desolée_ I'm sorry  
>  _Je suis tres desolée_ I'm very sorry  
>  _Je m’appelle_ My name is (formal version)  
>  _Et vous?_ And you?  
>  _Quel est votre nom?_ What is your name?  
>  _Mon nom est_ My name is (informal version)


End file.
